The bird didn't return immediately. It played with the butterfly, flashing around it. Presently it tired of the sport and came back to the branch it had perched on. "Pretty bit of fluff," it said breathlessly.
"Never mind that," said Alsint impatiently. "What about those people? Are they on this world?"
"Oh, not here," said the bird. "A thousand planets away."
Alsint groaned. The bird had been trained by a mad-man and was alternately raising his hopes and crushing them.
"Not so," said the bird. "Here's history: a hundred and forty years ago, a couple, plant mechanics, were marooned—for the same reason." It flew from the perch and alighted on the plant machine, dipping its bill in a collecting tray. "Good stuff," it said, clattering its beak.
Alsint said nothing. It would tell him when it got ready, not before.
"The plant machine's fine," said the bird. "It's a plant that's been taken apart. Can you put it back together?"
"No more than it is," said Alsint. "No one can."
"No one you know," said the bird. "Here's more history: A hundred and forty years ago, this couple learned how to put it together—and it grew. A hundred and thirty years ago, they knew how to take an animal apart and keep it alive. A hundred and twenty years ago, they put the animal together and made it work in a new way."